


maybe we'll go too far (we just don't care)

by janie_tangerine



Series: charity commissions 2018 [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (more or less), Aerys Is His Own Warning, Alley Sex, Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Jon Snow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Foster Care, Hand Jobs, I Don't Even Know, Jon Snow Knows Something, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, Movie Theater Sex, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Praise Kink, Public Display of Affection, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Semi-Public Sex, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Woman on Top, pseudo h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 11:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: Still, she thinks he needs a distraction. Maybe —She moves her hand on his knee, squeezing. “Since I suppose we can’t get any more drinks as long as he’s there, I guess that at this point either we go somewhere else or —” She lowers her voice, “Or, I could finish what I started,” she whispers.He glances at her. His cheeks are flushed, but she can feel his legs suddenly tensing, and not in the bad way. “Really?” He whispers.“As long as you don’t move and you pretend real well, I’m sure no one would notice,” she says, raising her hand upwards, her fingers brushing over his crotch but not quite touching him fully yet. “The lights are low and no one’s in this corner. I can be quick.”“And — all the way?”She grins. “I don’t know if you want to wait until we get back home. And you didn’t mind before, did you?”“I — I liked it, actually,” he admits, so low it’s barely audible.“So, should I —?”“… Yes,” he whispers.





	maybe we'll go too far (we just don't care)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Puke_Silver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puke_Silver/gifts), [half_life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_life/gifts).



> Third charity commission! :D this one was commissioned by the lovely half_life *but* it was based on ideas was from her friend puke_silver so I'm gifting to both ;) the prompt was: _a fic about escalating PDA (with Jon being ashamed of getting publicly aroused, but also into it). (...) one idea I had was her getting him to strip for her (she's fully clothed, heh) in front of a window (praising him for his body, saying anyone who saw it would be lucky), and then turning him around to face said window, coming behind him and jerking him off._ Aaaand. Er. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TELL ME YOU WANT JON/YGRITTE PORN. I'm afraid it's kind of _way_ beyond what was planned but I hope it lives to both's expectations ;) but that said I had a *great* time with this as it mOST PROBABLY SHOWS so hey thanks for the a+ prompt I enjoyed every comma of it. XD
> 
> Pseudo-warnings: at some point they go have drinks and Jon's technically three months away from turning eighteen and it mentions past underage drinking, also the latter tags are all about Jon's backstory because apparently I like giving him Aerys-related trauma SORRY JON I SWEAR I MADE IT UP TO YOU. Also, well, they obviously have sex in public. A lot. Do what you will with it. XD Also if anyone's wondering WHEN the hell this is supposed to be set, make it early 2000s. Very early.
> 
> Eventually: I only own the porn, the title is from a John Legend song that I greatly thank an American magazine for having put in their 'top ten songs about public sex' article (yeah I'm still shit at titles what news), everything else belongs to GRRM and I'll just be here sauntering vaguely downwards. Have fun. XD

Ygritte notices him for the first time at the bus stop, of all places.

It’s not even her stop; it’s the one for the bus going in the opposite direction and she’s only staring at its counterpart on the other side of the road because she forgot her book at home and her cellphone is half-dead and she doesn’t feel like opening her textbooks — she spent most of the day at uni and she’s brain-dead as far as _reading_ anything that’s not easy consumption is concerned.

So, she takes a look at the other stop as she waits for her bus to appear from the end of the road, and there _he_ is.

 _He_ , as in a guy that must be about to finish high school because he definitely looks older than seventeen and who definitely catches one’s attention since he’s _completely_ dressed in black. Jeans, boots, backpack (lighter than hers, though, and from what she sees it’s covered in band patches, _so_ he definitely has to be in high school still), coat and gloves.

The gloves are _weird_ , she thinks - it’s May, and fine, they’re in the UK and not _Italy_ or something, but it’s not that chilly. He has long-ish dark hair falling over his shoulders in soft curls, she can’t see his face because he’s burying it in some heavy book that does _not_ look like easy reading and he definitely has earplugs on.

Actually -

Is that a _Walkman_ inside the outer pocket of his backpack? Shit, it _is_. Who even listens to cassettes these days? She figures that maybe he didn’t have money to shell for one of those new iPods, not that _she_ has it either or at least not now. Still, she _does_ have a cd player, same as most people she knows. She thought Walkmans were vintage by now.

That said, the guy keeps on reading his book, and then some other kid shows up and sits down next to him along with a couple of friends. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but Dark and Mysterious Guy ignores them, or pretends to, up until one of the others reaches out and tears the book away from his hands, _and_ one of the gloves, too.

For a moment she thinks she’s going to have to cross the road and get in the middle of it, but a moment later the bus stopping on their side comes up the road and Dark and Mysterious sees his way out - he throws his elbow against the nose of the guy who was grabbing his shoulders, tears his backpack out of his friend’s grip and jumps on the bus. It drives away a moment later and the three arses remain with nothing — they throw both book and glove on the ground and then leave.

Her own bus isn’t coming for another five minutes, if it’s on time.

Ygritte crosses the road and grabs both book and glove — if she takes them, maybe tomorrow or the day after she’ll run into Dark and Mysterious again and she can give them back to him, if she doesn’t… well, someone else will take them and won’t know who they belonged to.

She brings them with as she walks back to her stop, and the bus comes up a minute later — she validates her travel card and takes a seat.

Then she looks down at both items in her hands.

The glove is fake leather, most likely very cheap but well-kept if worn out, and she can’t help noticing that they’re slightly longer than usual - if she puts it on, it stops at one third of her forearm.

She puts it away in her backpack and then looks down at the book - well, it’s _Les Miserables_ , no shit that it didn’t look like easy reading. She opens it and -

Is it in _French_?

So, was that Dark, _French_ and Mysterious? She goes through it - there’s some underlining and annotations in pencil, but they end at around midway through part three. She supposes that’s where he stopped at.

There’s nothing written on the front — too bad, if it had a number she might have called him.

She puts it in her backpack, too, and leaves it there.

——

The next day, he’s not at the bus stop.

The _next_ day, though, he is. And she can’t help noticing that he has one of his hands stuck inside his coat’s pocket.

 _So he doesn’t have another pair of gloves_ , she thinks.

Well, her bus comes in the minutes and at worst she can get the next one.

She walks up to him, noticing that today he’s _not_ wearing earplugs, understandably.

“Hey,” she says, and he keeps on looking down at his hands. “I’m talking to _you_ , by the way.”

At _that_ , he looks up at her at once and the moment he takes a good look at her, his face takes an expression of utter puzzlement, as if he’s wondering why the hell _she_ would want to talk to _him_.

And for a moment she says nothing because she can’t help thinking that as much as he doesn’t look like he’s having the best week of his life, he’s — _cute_? Never mind the hair — he has a pair of large, _lovely_ grey eyes that for a moment make her think of clouds just before a storm, straight nose, thin lips that could _definitely_ use some chapstick given how cracked they look and a nicely trimmed beard. If it wasn’t for what looks like a nasty scar on the left side of his face — it’s a straight line going through his entire cheek — he’d cut a quite lovely figure, but then again scars were never a thing that stopped Ygritte from finding people _cute_.

“Can I help you?” He asks, cautiously. He has a nice voice, too. Deep, calm, though he doesn’t sound happy. He sounds _wary_. And he can’t be older than eighteen.

 _The hell_?

“Well, no, _I_ can help you, I think. The day before yesterday, I was waiting for the bus on the other side of the road and I saw those arses bothering you. I noticed that you lost a couple of things and I figured that if you took this bus often I’d run into you again, so…” She shrugs and opens the outer pouch in her backpack, where she had stuffed the glove.

“That’s your glove,” she says, handing it over. “And if you give me a moment I’ll find the book, too.”

For a moment, he looks completely dumbfounded, but then he snatches it from her hands. “Oh, thank you,” he says, and _now_ he doesn’t sound cautious anymore — he pulls it over his until-then-bare left hand. “I wasn’t expecting — never mind.”

“What weren’t you expecting?” She asks as she rummages through her stuff - damn, it must have ended up on the bottom of the backpack.

“Anyone to notice,” he mutters, more to himself than to her.

Finally, she finds the book and carefully lifts it out; thankfully the cover didn’t bend or anything. “Here,” she says. “You don’t sound French, though.”

“I’m not,” he says, taking it, and now he’s _slightly_ smiling, though not overtly so. “Let’s say I have a lot of free time and studying languages better than they teach you in school isn’t such a bad way to occupy it.” He puts the book into his own bag, almost reverently. “Well, uh, thank you,” he says then, looking at her again. “I thought they were both lost for good.”

“It’s fine,” she grins back. Damn, he _is_ cute. “So, I suppose that’s not last year of high school reading material?”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Chill, I’m at my first year in uni and I can recognize one of my breed, and you don’t look younger than seventeen for that matter.”

“Fair. And no, it’s not.”

Before he can say anything else, his bus shows up from the other side of the road and at _that_ he looks almost sorry. “Uh, I’ve got to take it, sorry if —”

She’s about to tell him it’s fine, but he _does_ look like he’d have liked a chat.

“Well,” she says, “are you sorry because you wanted to keep this conversation going? Yes or no, no one’s going to eat you alive.”

“What if I did?”

She grins. “Well, then I don’t have any pressing stuff to do. I can take that with you and go back later.”

“What — really?”

The bus stops in front of them.

“Just get in, won’t you?”

He nods and does, and she follows him. Patience if she’ll have to pay for one more trip.

——

She sits next to him and while he’s not _overtly_ chatty, she finds out his name is Jon, that he’s turning eighteen next August — so roughly one year and a half less than her, not much —, that he indeed is attending his last year of high school at the public one near that specific bus stop and that the three people from two days ago weren’t strangers.

“What, they don’t like your refined literary taste?” She grins.

“They don’t,” he agrees. “And a few other things.”

He adds nothing and she doesn’t press, and then she notices that he’s getting slightly flustered as he pushes the button to reserve the next stop.

“Er, I’m getting off here,” he says.

“Fine. I’m just going to take it in the other direction.”

She gets off with him, and then she looks up at the gate in front of them.

Unless the sign on the side doesn’t lie, it’s a group home.

“There’s a curfew,” he shrugs. “That was why I couldn’t miss that one bus.”

He’s looking at her as if she’s expecting her to just up and leave, now that she found out about _that_.

As if she gives a fuck — honestly, she’s lived with her uncle since her parents died in a car crash and she’s been plenty grateful for it because at least she didn’t end up in the system on top of everything else.

“Most of those places have one, I figured. So, _Jon_ , I suppose I’ll see you at the bus stop, won’t I?”

“Oh — well, yes, I mean, I always take that one.”

“Well then, it was a pleasure,” she says, and watches him walk inside the door before it closes behind him with a heavy sound.

She goes to take _her_ bus and she thinks that she _would_ like to talk to him again.

——

The next day, she writes her mobile number on a small piece of paper.

When she sees him sitting at the bus stop, she goes over to say hi. He greets her back, and he looks kind of surprised that she did show up, but he stands up at once and they talk shop for a couple minutes until his bus pulls up.

She slips the piece of paper in one of his coat pockets when he’s not looking.

——

Four hours later, she gets a text.

 

_Ygritte?_

 

She grins and saves the number.

 

_Who else?_

 

She has to wait for a minute or two, but then he replies.

 

_Any particular reason why you left your number in my jacket?_

 

She grins and types back. She had a feeling he’d ask _that_.

 

 _You seem like the kind of person I’d like to get to know better. Also, you looked like you wanted to ask it but couldn’t bring yourself to. Did I get it wrong_?

 

This time, she waits for _five_ minutes.

Then -

 

_No._

 

Just that, and she’s about to text back when she gets another reply.

 

_I didn’t think you’d say yes._

 

Given that _everyone_ she’s ever flirted with always told her she was pretty straightforward, either she’s off her game or he’s _very_ oblivious.

 

 _Then you knew nothing ;)_ , she types.

 

For a moment she wonders, _was that too much_ , but then she gets a reply way before five minutes.

 

_Guess I didn’t. And - the system doesn’t dole out money but you did pay me a favor, so if you wanted to do coffee on Saturday morning, maybe…?_

 

But look at that.

He’s not _that_ clueless, then.

 

 _I’d be delighted,_ she types back.

 

The conversation dies after they decided on a time and a place, but she goes to bed feeling like she _might_ have gotten it right before. Well, her last boyfriend was an asshole and she hasn’t seen anyone in the last year or so because she was too busy not getting buried under uni textbooks — she’s more than ready to see where this goes, and if it goes nowhere he does look like an interesting person and she never was the kind of person who shied from making friends.

——

That Saturday, it’s warmer, but he still shows up with the leather gloves. He’s still wearing all black except for a Nirvana t-shirt — _right_ , of course that’s his thing— and he’s still reading Hugo while he waits for her, though it seems like he’s almost done.

“You read fast,” she notices.

“Told you, I’ve got a lot of free time,” he shrugs, and she settles on plain black coffee without any fancy stuff except for some cream — he gets the same, just without the cream.

“That’s hardcore,” she tells him.

“Acquired taste,” he grins back, even if it sounds tentative.

“Still hardcore,” she says, sipping at her own. “So, let me guess, you like Javert best.”

“… How exactly —”

“I read that, though not in _French_ ,” she says. “You have the face of the person who likes Javert best, if you ask me. And by the way, I’m _not_ making fun of you, most guys I run into can barely read the football news. Most _people_ I run into, for that matter.”

“Anthropologists can’t read now?” He asks.

“Fair enough, university is better than high school was. But I did like guys who read _anything_ in high school, at least they actually used their brain.”

“At least _someone_ appreciates it.”

“Why, no one does where you come from?”

He shrugs. “The place I’m in now is better than the previous one.” He sips at his coffee. “And I might actually leave before August, if everything goes well, which’d be a bloody first. The one before — they didn’t appreciate it when it wasn’t suggested reading.”

“Good to know it hasn’t stopped you.”

“Not bloody likely,” he says, and doesn’t add anything, but they do spend the next half hour discussing snob French literature, and just before he has to leave — apparently lunch has curfew, too — she tells him she’d like to buy him breakfast next week, or whenever.

For a moment, he looks floored.

Then —

“I’m good with next week,” he says, as if he can barely wrap his head around it, and then runs after his next bus.

She smiles as she watches him leave.

Next week, then.

——

Except that next Friday, she arrives at the bus stop slightly later than her usual, she got held up in class, and when she does, she hears noise on the other side of the road.

It’s the same three arses from the first week, and she’s very much delighted to see that two of them are clutching a bloody nose, except that the third is in some kind of shouting match with Jon except she can only hear insults from her side of the sidewalk, and then she sees the guy pulling away one of the gloves and tearing it in two and then do the same with the other.

She’s crossed the road before she’s thought about it, moved behind the guy and punched him in the kidney from behind — your uncle being a retired professional boxer _will_ teach you some self defense.

“The fuck,” the guy spits as he turns and looks at her. Then he realizes that he’s clutching his side thanks to a woman shorter than him and half his size, but before he can say anything, she curls her fingers in a fist and moves her hand upwards.

“How about you and your friends scram?” She asks. “Three against one doesn’t look good on you. Or do you want me to do _that_ again?”

 _That_ seems to put the fear of the devil into them; they immediately run off.

“Arses,” she mutters. “Jon, are you all — _shit_.”

It’s not that he’s _not_ all right — he did put up a valiant defense given how the other two looked, but he has a bruise on his cheek and a split lip. But mostly, she’s looked down at his right hand.

It’s _burned_. A fairly damn bad burn scar running at least up until the wrist.

“Thanks,” he manages to say, but he sounds like he wants to faint. “Well, _damn_ , now they’re going to have my ass when I go back.”

“What? Those wankers were on you, you didn’t do anything,” she protests.

“Yeah, well, at the place where I’m staying at, they’re — not bad, but if you want to not end up grounded or worse you have to _behave appropriately_ ,” he shrugs. “The owners have ideas on that topic. And the wankers in question don’t live there.”

He doesn’t sound like he relishes the thought. She thinks about it for a moment, then —

“The curfew is always or can you, I dunno, sleep at a friend’s once in a while?”

He stares at her. “I — I never actually did it, but in theory you do have one day per week when you can do that. Why?”

She shrugs. “Well, I’m renting a flat on my own. It’s a hole, but it does have a couch. I can put some ice on that cut and such and maybe if tomorrow’s not as swollen, I can put some concealer on it and they won’t know.”

“Really?” He asks. “I mean, are you sure? I don’t want to impose —”

“ _Jon_ , you know nothing if you think I’d offer if I _didn’t_ mean it.”

“I — well, it’d be — yes?”

“Good,” she says, “then let’s get over there already before we miss the damned bus.”

He follows her, and she can’t help thinking that it’s _really_ a pity that he has such a lovely face and apparently people are very intent on punching it.

——

“I guess you want to know about the hand, don’t you?”

She’s holding the ice pack on his face when he asks the question — they’re sitting on the sofa and she put tea to brew, but it’s not done yet.

“I want to know just if you want to tell me,” she tells him truthfully. “No obligation.”

He shrugs before flinching as she moves the bag slightly. “Well, that’s why I’m _there_ , for that matter.”

“I should hope that if any relative of yours did that to you _someone_ might’ve called social services,” she mutters.

“I wish it was that easy,” he sighs, and then he tells her.

In the next ten minutes, she finds out that his father was the son of some insane arse who also happened to be old nobility and his mother was some _not_ blue-blooded girl he eloped with and died out of birth complications a year after, or so they told him. His father died in a car accident not long later and since the mother’s family somehow was _not_ notified of his existence because _insane arse_ of a grandfather, he ended up growing up with him and a few relatives for some ten years.

“Obviously, they all hated me,” he says. “Except my aunt, but they tried to keep our contacts to a minimum. Anyway, my grandfather was batshit crazy and he just got worse with time, and at some point he decided that I wasn’t _pure_ enough for whatever shit he was thinking and he tried to set my hand on fire. At _that_ point one of the maids called the police and they showed up just in time to make sure it didn’t get as far as third degree, but obviously he settled so that _I_ would be the only one leaving. The power of having money.” He shrugs as she swaps the bag with a fresh one. “So I ended up in the first group home. Which had — uhm. The owners were the _bad_ kind of religious fanatics. It got shut down a few years later when they went down on someone with a ruler so hard his hands bled, but anyway, the face scar is thanks to them.”

“… And what did you do to deserve it?”

“I had a nightmare about the hand thing and I woke up everyone else.”

“… Exemplary,” she comments, wondering _why_ some people even are in the field of dealing with kids if they can’t handle it.

“I know,” he sighs. “Anyway, I was in another one that was closed later for lack of funds where no one even watched us, then I ended up at the place I am right now. And I mean, they’re strict, but at worst you only leave to go to school and then you have to come back at once for a week and no one hits you in public, it’s heaps better.”

 _Fair_ , she thinks, but if that counts as _heaps better_ to him, the bar must be set very damn low.

“And you said you might get to leave?”

“Turns out my mom’s family actually _existed_ and they found everything out a year ago or so. And they actually _would_ take me in, but apparently bureaucracy is shit and they have to work it out. If anything I have a place to go after I turn eighteen,” he concludes. “Sorry for the pity party.”

“Hey, I sort of asked, and it wasn’t a pity party. You know, you’re allowed to feel bad about it.”

He shrugs again. “I guess,” he says. “Still, it’s — never mind. Thanks for the ice.”

“Yeah, well, let me check that cut.” She puts away the bag, it has warmed up by now, and takes a look at it — it doesn’t look infected and it’s not swollen, and it won’t scar, probably — she runs a fingertip over it, and she feels him shuddering slightly underneath.

“Nothing too bad,” she proclaims. “Some concealer and it won’t even be visible.”

“Good,” he agrees. “Thanks, really, I —”

“It’s fine,” she says, “I don’t do anything I don’t _want_ , Jon,” she says, and then her eyes meet his, and damn if she doesn’t positively love that color. Not many people have gray eyes. And his are just a lovely shade, for a moment she thinks it’d have belonged on a nineteenth century painting.

“You know,” she says, figuring that _maybe_ she should just go for it. If he says no, fine. If he doesn’t — “It’s kind of a pity.”

“What?”

“That you’ve got such a sweet face and people seem to think they can use it as a punching bag.”

“I’ve got — I don’t think _anyone_ ’s ever told me _that_ ,” he breathes.

“Really? You know a lot of people with no taste, then,” she says, and she moves her hand to his scarred cheek to prove the point, and for a moment they just _stare_ at each other but then he’s moved forward and touched his lips to hers, and _—_

 _Oh._ Then she _hadn’t_ imagined wrong, she grins as she kisses him back, _proper_ , but without being too fast or pushing too much — he still has half of his lip split, fuck’s sake. She goes slow, her tongue running along his lower lip, her lips caressing his, and he follows her lead, his tongue touching hers, his hand grasping at her hair, and while it’s a bit tentative, it’s also _good_ , she decides.

“Seems like you _do_ know something,” she grins up at him after they part, and he goes red in the face before he leans over slightly and kisses her again, and — yeah. _Yeah_ , even if it’s obvious he doesn’t kiss people often he’s putting effort into it, and she feels him shuddering slightly as she moans a little into his mouth before her hands move to the sides of his face, and before she’s realized it she’s right on top of him on the sofa. Which was _not_ built for two people in this position — they stop the moment they hear it creak.

“You know,” she says, “if I’m being too forward just say it, I’ve been told it’s the case, but my bed’s a lot more comfortable than the sofa. Without obligations, of course, especially since you still look like shit.”

“I might start thinking it was worth it,” he says, though not looking at her.

“How nice of you to say. So, bed or sofa?”

“I’ll take the bed,” he says. “Uh, I guess you don’t happen to have a change of clothes that could fit me?”

“Let me check.”

She finds him some old black pjs that definitely belonged to the last guy she slept with for more than a month who never came back for them — well, his loss. They don’t really fit, they’re too large, but she has a feeling he’d rather have that than sleeping _without_ anything on, so she says nothing and lends him a toothbrush.

They don’t do anything past sharing the bed, but she doesn’t miss that when she puts an arm around his waist, his shoulders lose tension as he relaxes against her.

She goes to sleep thinking that he _does_ fit quite nicely against her.

——

The next morning he looks utterly confused when he walks into her kitchen and finds out she’s actually made them breakfast. Nothing fancy, but she _can_ do pancakes, thank you very much.

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

“Well, I _wanted_ to,” she replies, getting the last one out of the pan. “Why, what do you usually get?”

“Uh, tea with milk and a couple biscuits?”

“That’s just about sad, which is one more reason why you should have the pancakes. When do you have to go back?”

“By early afternoon, I guess.”

“Good, means I can buy you _lunch_ since I didn’t get to buy you breakfast.”

“You’ve made it.”

“Well, I haven’t _bought_ it, it’s hardly the same thing.”

“Guess I knew nothing?” He asks, but he’s smiling as he says it and helps himself to some strawberry.

“I see you’re getting on with the program,” she grins back.

——

She does buy him lunch after spending a good half hour putting concealer on his bruise - it’s enough that no one will notice, unless they look very close. He picks the Chinese in front of her place out of the admittedly few choices he had, it’s not a great area for restaurants, and she can see that he’s actively trying to make sure people don’t see his right hand. Good thing he seems to be proficient with using sticks with his left, but still —

At some point, someone in the next table glances at it while he _finally_ had put it up there rather than keep it under the table or _somehow_ under the napkin.

 _Fuck it_ , she thinks, and reaches out with her left, covering his, before he can move it back under the table.

“That fine?” She asks as she reaches down for one of her dumplings.

For a moment he freezes, looking down at it and then up at her, but then he nods tentatively, his cheeks slightly flushing.

Then he goes back to his rice.

 _Interesting_ , she takes note of, and she keeps her hand there for the rest of their lunch. She doesn’t thread their fingers together because it would show the burned skin and that wasn’t the point, but what she can’t help noticing is that sometimes he looks at her like he can’t quite figure out _why_ she’s doing it, but at the same time as if he’s actually _liking_ it.

She says nothing and pays the bill for both, and at _that_ he’s definitely put his hand back under the table.

She figures they still have an hour or so before he has to go back — when they stand, she slips his hand into hers, and honestly, it’s kind of adorable that he’s still flushing.

“You know,” she says as they walk out, “you can say it if I’m being too —”

“No,” he interrupts, “it’s just — doesn’t happen often.”

Fair.

“Too bad,” she says, and - well. The nearby alley is empty, and they do have some time, don’t they?

She pulls him with her as she turns and he immediately kisses her back as they hide behind the corner — she’s not too pushy, but he does immediately kiss her back and she moans into his mouth when he buries his hand in her hair, not failing to notice that he’s letting her set the pace and he’s probably not even doing it on purpose.

Then _someone_ whistles as they pass them by and they break apart. Jon does look somehow sheepish at it. “Er, I guess it’s not the right place?”

“Well, if we had to go further than that I’d hope we could do better than _that_ ,” she says, winking at him, but as much as she’s not the person who’ll have a problem with it, maybe when they go beyond kissing she’d like it if it was in a bed or somewhere proper.

“Fair,” he breathes, his hand dropping back inside his pocket. She holds hers out and then he looks at her for a moment before he slips it into hers again.

“You really don’t mind?” He asks her softly later, as they’re taking a walk around the small nearby park for a short while before he has to get his bus.

“What, the hand? No. Who cares?” She replies, and she _really_ doesn’t, it’s not like it’s a turn-off or anything of the kind.

“… Some people do, but good to know,” he says, and doesn’t tell her more. Fair, she’s not going to pressure him into doing it.

She kisses him _proper_ before the bus pulls over at the stop and tells him to feel free to text or call, she doesn’t kiss people just for fun unless it’s a hook-up.

He goes red in the face again, but then says he will.

He _does_ , not long later — she figures he’s managed to get back home.

 

 _I’m not sure I didn’t dream the whole thing,_ she reads.

 

She rolls her eyes, even if she knows she must look fond as she does it, and shit, is she getting attached already? It doesn’t happen often, but — never mind that. She has a feeling he’s worth it.

 

 _You know nothing, with which I mean, you didn’t_ , she types, and then, _see you next week?_

_Good to hear it. Yes, see you next week._

 

She’s honestly delighted to see he doesn’t spell using abbreviations.

——

They do meet at the bus stop throughout the next week, though not with enough time to do more than talk shop since he has curfew, but he does agree to sleeping at her place again next Friday.

Good, because she thinks she has _plans_.

She’s a passable cook, admittedly, but she’s not _great_ , and most of all she hasn’t asked him if he’s allergic to any food, and she kind of wanted to do a surprise thing, so she ends up ordering from the Chinese place since he obviously had no issue with anything he ate there last time, and maybe she cleans up the place a bit more than usual, but blame her if she _likes_ him and wants to make a good impression now that she’s planning it.

It’s honestly worth the effort when the intercom buzzes, she opens the door for him and he drops dead silent the moment he notices that the table is already made, the food is out and she set out the table with the only nice cutlery and plates she has.

“You didn’t have to,” he finally says.

“Sure, but I _wanted_ to. What, I don’t invite people for dinner and then give them a sandwich.”

He doesn’t add anything, even if he looks honestly moved, and then he nods and lowers his backpack to the ground. It’s worn-out, she notices, and if the band patches on it (all grunge, she notices, and no band that was founded after ’96 or so on it) aren’t hand-stitched, she might start needing glasses.

“Well, thank you,” he says, his cheeks going red for a moment, and then they sit down to eat and she notices that he’s not wearing new gloves.

That said, he still tends to put his hand under the table, she can’t help noticing, but she doesn’t point it out.

“So,” she asks as they work through some fried chicken, “are those arses from last week leaving you alone?”

“For now,” he agrees. “At least it’s just a month left and then I can take the damned A levels and be done with it.”

“Did your guardians notice you ended up in a fight?”

“Uh, no. Your concealer game is pretty strong. Then again they don’t really look too close.”

“Better for the two of us, then. So, I wouldn’t be a good host if I didn’t even give you a choice about what to do. There’s a cinema around the corner if you want, unless you have a better idea. Don’t worry, I invited you, so it’s on me.”

He swallows his chicken. “I could be persuaded,” he says. The bruise on his face is fading already, but it does look like it still hurts a bit.

——

They end up going to some dumb action flick that he definitely doesn’t care for and she moderately cares for because everything else was an abysmal choice, but it’s not a problem since they make out for the entire time, and by the time it’s over she feels turned on _as hell_ , and when they stand up and his crotch brushes against her leg she can feel he’s also _very much bothered_ , good thing that, and —

“Should we go back upstairs?” She asks him as they head out.

“ _Yes_ ,” he agrees at once, and by the time they’ve closed the door behind them they’re kissing again, his back pressed against the wall, and she can’t help noticing that he’s letting her set the pace, not that she minds, _all the contrary_.

Though maybe she should ask at least a couple of things before they actually do anything.

“So,” she breathes, “anything we should talk about before _this_ goes any further?”

At _that_ , he his cheeks flush even more. “Er, fuck, maybe. I mean, I did _stuff_ around with a few girls but it didn’t, uh, lead anywhere I liked.”

 _Well_ , she’s happy that they waited until they found a proper bed to do anything, knowing that.

“Fine. That’s it?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Everyone needs to start somewhere,” she cuts him. “But you look a bit too worried for _that_ to be your only problem, here.”

“Er, it’s just, things didn’t go anywhere I liked because all of them weren’t into — uh, how do I put it —”

He looks embarrassed now. _Really_ embarrassed.

Wait, _what_ would he be embarrassed about, if -

 _Wait_.

“Jon, if you’re trying to tell me that you don’t like being on top, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“There - there isn’t?”

“No, because _I_ do like that. Being on _top_ , I mean,” she smiles, and grabs the lapels of his shirt and drags him downwards and kisses him again, pushing him back inside her bedroom, and he moans into her mouth as she does, and by the time he’s with his back on the bed and she’s kicking off her shoes while falling on top of him he’s moaning into her mouth without being embarrassed _at all_.

Good thing she’s got condoms in her nightstand — she reaches for the first drawer and grabs one, putting somewhere she’ll find it easily later — and then moves back down to kiss him again, her hand going to the side of his face, angling his head so she has better access.

They end up with Jon’s back against the headboard and Ygritte pretty much sitting all over him, her thighs circling his, his hands loosely grasping at her waist, and wow, has she just made out with someone for _that_ long lately? No. Definitely not in the last few years.

By the time she moves back and takes a good look at him, his mouth is kiss-swollen and his pupils are wide and she can feel his cock pressing up against her crotch, even if he’s not doing anything to flip them over or change their current position. He’s taking deep breaths, though, his good hand reaching up to push hair out of her forehead. She reaches down and grabs his left, squeezing his fingers.

“So,” she says, “anything special I can do for you?”

“What — what do you mean?”

“Well, if this has to lead _somewhere_ you like, maybe you could give me a few pointers,” she winks. “There must be something you’d like to do. Come on, you must have pictured a few scenarios.”

He goes red at that. “What — maybe.”

“Share with the class. I swear, I don’t get offended.”

“Uh, well, that’s — the position’s right,” he finally says, his fingers curled around hers grasping tighter. “From that point on — uh, you’d — take my clothes off?”

“Doable. Then?”

“Then — I’d go down on you at some point. But when _you_ decided. Not when I did. And — fuck, you’d — hold me down while, uh —”

“I think I got that,” she grins, leaning back. He’s not asking for anything _that_ hard, after all — she puts her hands on his oversized band t-shirt (she has no idea who the Pixies are but she’ll make sure to look into it) and tugs it off him as he raises his arms, and then she looks down at his chest. He’s toned, though not _too_ muscled, which is a very nice look on him, with hair just in the middle going towards his groin and his skin is warm as she runs her hands on it, and it would be quite a damn lovely sight if it wasn’t for a series of what looks like old cigarette burns right over his hip.

He notices that she noticed — he goes rigid, slightly.

Then —

“First group home,” he says, not quite looking at her.

“You don’t have to —”

“Not even much of a story. Same as the face, honestly. And it’s been years, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

She doesn’t drag _that_ conversation on, figuring that it would just kill the mood. Instead, she opens up his jeans and drags them off along with his boxers (black, obviously) and throws everything to the side of the bed.

Then —

Well. He said he wanted to go down on her, at _her_ call.

She thinks she can wait a bit. She leans down and kisses him softly on his mouth, then the side of his head, then his neck, making her way down until her mouth finds his hip.

She can feel him almost arch off the bed as she runs her tongue over the four small, rounds scars and kisses the skin around it, biting down softly on the side before kissing them _again_ , and she doesn’t move until she feels him shaking under her mouth — when she leans back, he’s hard already and his hands are trembling as he grasps the sheet, and damn but she wants to bring herself off just at the way he’s looking up at her, but that’s not what’s in the plans. She reaches out for the condom, then grabs his left hand and moves it between her legs.

“I think,” she says, “that I could do with some help there.”

He looks up at her, nods, slips one finger inside her gently as she spreads her legs, moving closer, and she exhales with a grin as he slips a second in the moment he realizes she’s so wet she technically wouldn’t even _need_ it, but then he moves them in and out, in and out, and she moans when he finally finds the _right_ place with a shove of both fingers inside her while his thumb rubs her clit. She can feel her cheeks get flushed, and she can also see that he’s looking up at her as if he’s cataloguing all her reactions, and fuck but that’s just sweet, isn’t it?

“Oh,” she says, “you’re _good_.”

“I don’t know —”

“You’re doing that to _me_ , I think you are. Oh, for — wait. Wait, I’ll come in a moment if you keep on like this. Wait.”

He nods, his fingers slipping out of her, and then she opens the condom, rolls it on him before he becomes _too_ hard, and moves a hand to his right wrist.

“You said I should hold you down?”

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” he groans.

“Good,” she smiles, and angles herself better before sinking down on him, and then she pushes against the headboard also his left wrist, and he looks at her with parted lips and wide eyes.

“Like that?” She asks, canting her hips downwards, slow, and the way he moans in return, she’s sure it was supposed to be _like that_. And fuck, the moment she starts riding him for real his shoulders lose all the tension and he seems to melt against the mattress, and he follows along readily whenever her mouth meets his, searching for her tongue but not trying to take control of any kiss she gives in, moaning into her mouth.

“So,” she breathes as she picks up the pace, feeling him inside her, and damn but it had barely hurt before for how wet she was, “anything else you wanna tell me before —”

“I —” He sobs, then looks up at her. “You would tell me when — _when_ —”

Oh.

“Right,” she says, pressing his wrists against the wall with just a bit more strength. “Right. And you’re — waiting?”

“I’m _trying_ ,” he admits, his pupils blown, and fuck, she’s close. She’s _so_ close —

“Well, for the first time, I think you’ve waited enough. Be a darling and give it to me, won’t you?” She asks, moving back up and then _down_ , and she kisses him as he spasm against her and moans inside her mouth while she clenches around him, hard, _fast_ , and then she lets his wrists go because she _has_ to have her hands on his face as they kiss, and there’s nothing refined about it or about how hard he’s shaking against her as he rides out his orgasm, and by the time she’s come down from hers, he’s taking in small breaths and his hands are grasping at her hips, holding on to it, and he’s smiling up at her as if he can’t believe this happened for real.

Well, she has an entire evening to convince him otherwise.

She slips off him, grinning, before she throws an arm around his waist.

“So,” she asks him, “was that good enough for a start?”

“Oh, we’re just getting started?” He’s regained his breath by now, and he looks intrigued at it, and his pupils are still blown and his mouth still bright red.

She smiles. “We have all night, don’t we?”

Later, she finds out that his previous girlfriends must have been mad to at least not go _anywhere serious_ , since it turns out he gives the best head anyone’s ever given her — honestly. If she’s her first, he’s a _natural_ , she thinks as his tongue curls around her clit before he sucks on it, and if she’s not, well, that says nothing for the tastes of whoever they were. Especially because he doesn’t do it to pay her a favor.

He does it in such a way that makes it obvious he _loves_ it.

After the _third_ time in a row he makes her come just with his mouth, there’s just one thing she can think.

_Their loss. Definitely their loss._

——

The next morning, she wakes up late.

Turns out, _he_ made her breakfast, and if she can make passable pancakes, it turns out he can make _very_ good ones, on top of French toast.

“You _could_ have said you could cook,” she tells me as she stuffs half of one inside her mouth.

He grins, slightly. “I _do_ have some talents. That said, at the place I’m staying at you can eat their food or you can cook your own and honestly, I’d rather eat my bloody own. Theirs sucks.”

“Well, I _like_ your talents,” she decides, and she doesn’t miss how pleased he looks at hearing that.

 _Then_ , they go out — he can stay until after lunch before he has to go back. It goes great, until they decide to take the bus to his place before so they don’t have to hurry, and _of course_ the moment they sit down at the bus stop he goes rigid because the same two idiots from two weeks ago are waiting on the other side.

“Damn,” he says, “let’s just hope they ignore me.”

Ygritte _does_ notice those two glancing their way.

Well, fuck them, honest.

“Or maybe you should _make_ them,” she grins, and puts his hands on his face and kisses him full, and for a moment he’s still but then he kisses back, and then she kisses him _harder_ , throwing a leg over his own and sitting over his thighs. The little old lady next to them is _definitely_ glancing to the side and muttering something under her breath, but no one else is around. She moves away slightly.

“Are they looking over here?”

“What — yes, but they aren’t coming over.”

 _Good._ She leans down and kisses him again, and she can feel him getting hard, and _then_ the little old lady screams at them to find a room and something about young people these days having no shame -

“I think,” she breathes, “that maybe we can catch the next one.”

“What —”

She climbs off him and grabs his wrist — he follows, backpack and all, and she doesn’t think they’ll make it back home, so as soon as she sees a suitable alley, she turns the corner and pushes him up against the wall.

“Fuck,” he says, blushing hard enough that it’s indeed noticeable under his beard, “are we really —”

“Just if you want me to,” she says, her hand on his belt. “But I don’t think I want to wait.”

He seems to think about it for a moment, glancing at the road, and it’s obvious that he’s feeling _at least_ somewhat ashamed at the prospect, but then he breathes in once, twince, and then -

“Oh, whatever, if someone catches us it’s not like their opinion of me could get any lower,” he says, almost laughing, and — she should ask, really, but _later_ , and so she opens his belt very quickly and pushes her hand downwards, jerking him off quick and fast and the way she’s learned he liked it the night before, his hands going to her hair — she doesn’t try to make it last, it’s midday and and people _could_ actually see them, and he’s coming against her hand not long later. She kisses him right before he does so that it looks like they’re just making out rather than _more_ , and she only moves her hand away when he’s completely spent. Too bad that his underwear didn’t come out of it unscathed.

“Sorry about that,” she says, wiping her hand on a tissue. “We can find a bar or something if you have a change —”

“I do,” he says, his cheeks flushing with both arousal _and_ most definitely residual shame but also — something else she can’t quite place, “but — what if I don’t mind?” He asks it so low that it’s barely audible, and he’s asking it as if he’s hoping she won’t think he’s completely insane for wanting it, but —

“You — you _don’t_?”

He shrugs. He still looks more than halfway ashamed of it. But —

“I wouldn’t. I mean, I’m going back in an hour or so, I can change when I’m home. But—”

“If you’re saying you might do it now just because you think I want you to, don’t bother,” she says. “Kinky. Do tell me more next time.”

“What — _really_?”

She grins. “Do I look to you like a prude?” She winks. “Come on, then we have time to buy some coffee. And if it turns you on to know that I made you come _in public_ and you’re feeling it and _other people in line wouldn’t know_ , I won’t be the person stopping you.”

She expects an answer. He doesn’t give her one but nods instead, and she wraps her fingers around his burned hand before the get out of the alley.

He blushes all the way to the coffee shop and to the bus stop, but not long after she comes back home she gets a text — right, he should be home right now.

 

 _I feel like a complete idiot writing this_ , it says. Just that. A moment later, she gets part two. _I might have jerked off in the shower._

 

She smiles. _And how did that go?_

 

_What do you think?_

 

_I think maybe we should kiss in front of your idiot classmates more often._

 

 _… I might take that deal_ , he replies a short while later.

 

Well, she thinks, they’ll see where it leads, but if he enjoyed it - why not? She _did_ like it, and the thrill of knowing someone might notice them _did_ pull a number on her — she hadn’t brought herself off out of self-control, but she _does_ , later that night, just thinking about it, and —

If it happens again, she won’t be the one stopping it, she figures.

——

The arrange things for next week-end as well, since he has pre-A-levels tests that week and she can use time to revise some more since her classes are ending and she won’t have to take that bus at the same time.

Next Friday, he shows up with new gloves, just way less nice than the ones he had before — these ones are cheap wool with cut-off fingers and they’re a tonality of yellow she honestly doesn’t think looks his style.

“Those new?” He asks, taking his coat and trying to make it sound like she doesn’t mind either way.

“Not exactly,” he sighs. “I can’t spare any money on new ones and they were the only pair that fit in the amount of leftover clothes they have. I mean, I _do_ save off what they deign to give us but they’re worried we’d spend money in weed or cigarettes or alcohol or whatever so we don’t get that much and when — if the bureaucracy clears up and I manage to go live with my mother’s family, I wouldn’t want to get there without anything, you know. I mean. It’s seven of them already.”

Fair enough, she thinks. Also, that’s _way_ more responsible than anything she’s ever heard out of the mouth of _anyone_ his age she’s ever met, herself included. “I doubt you need to worry that much if they’re going through the effort of fighting bureaucracy already, but that’s still remarkably responsible of you. Still, you don’t have to wear them —” She says, figuring she’d end it there, but she sees him go tense at once. Right. Abort mission. “— _Here_ , I meant. Seems to me like I made it pretty clear I don’t mind, right?”

“You might’ve,” he says, suddenly relaxing. His voice sounds softer now, and he shrugs before he pulls them off and stuffs them in his backpack with a grimace.

“Not your color, right?”

“No,” he says, “but what can you do. So, do I get to show off my cooking skills or not?”

“Please do, I even bought _good_ groceries. But I was thinking we could get drinks after - don’t worry, I know a bar where they don’t ask your age. Or I can buy for two.”

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “Now _that_ is something I like to hear.”

Turns out, he _does_ have cooking skills, in spades, and that he can make a mean Shepherd’s pie. And he does look inordinately pleased when she tells him that. She wants to ask, _doesn’t anyone tell you more often_ , and then doesn’t ask the question because the answer is obvious.

So she says nothing and when they go out later, she heads straight for the only pub nearby where the owner knows her _and_ doesn’t usually ask for an ID if people walking in are obviously older than fifteen. He’s put on the gloves, obviously, but she can see that he’s not feeling uncomfortable.

“So, how do you like it?”

“I’m relieved that I’m surrounded by people who _aren’t_ in high school,” he says dryly.

“Seems like you have the right attitude. I couldn’t wait to be out either.”

They find a table, to the side, and Sandor Clegane doesn’t bat an eyelid when she gets him a whiskey and a beer for herself.

“You like the strong stuff?” She asks when Clegane leaves with her order.

He shrugs. “Occasionally. Not that I’ve had _much_ but the previous group home, they didn’t really give a damn about what most people did. A lot of people indulged. I only did it occasionally. But the light stuff doesn’t do anything for me.”

She’s tempted to press, but Clegane shows up with both glasses a moment later — he takes his sweet time with his own glass, but she can’t help noticing that halfway through it his cheeks are slightly more flushed and he’s tentatively smiling more often than not. And damn if he’s not downright _cute_ when he does that, though she doesn’t tell him or she has a feeling he’d go all embarrassed on her.

That is —

“Thanks, by the way,” he says kind of randomly — they had been discussing the horrid state of alternative music these days before he said _that_.

“What, for the drinks?” She honestly has no idea what it was about. Certainly not agreeing with him that Stone Temple Pilots without Weiland should disband already or change the name.

“No, well, that, too, but — shit, I feel like an idiot right now, but - I don’t really get to do this very often.”

“As in, getting drinks? I figured -”

“No, no, it’s not that either. I mean, just, going out and talking about inane stuff I don’t hate and the likes. Shit, it sounds pathetic, does it?”

“I don’t think it is,” she shrugs. “Really. Why would it be? Especially if you’re surrounded by assholes.”

He snorts, _loud_ , and she’s suddenly aware of how warm is his thigh pressed up to hers. “That was eerily accurate.”

“You _don’t_ look like the guy who enjoys _Spaceballs_.”

“Life is too short to pretend I don’t enjoy over the top dumb parodies sometimes. Honest, it was better than both prequels put together.”

“Right, you _do_ have nice taste, even if you might like your sad stuff a tad too much,” she winks, and puts a hand on his arm as she sips her beer, and he shivers.

And she can _absolutely_ feel it.

“Well,” she hums, “that wasn’t _disagreeing_ with me, was it?”

“No,” he says, and she can see he’s flushing under his beard, again. He also looks like he’s about to flirt back, except that then he mutters _shit_ under his breath and moves his eyes from the table on the other side of the room at once.

“Is there some problem?” She asks.

He drinks again. “Look ahead,” he whispers. “See the guy with the gray shirt in the table on the opposite side? Right in front of us?”

“Short curly hair, looks like he wants to devour a few harmless children? Yeah. Why?”

Jon shakes his head. “Former PE teacher. On whose watch a bunch of kids had a horrid time. I mean, he hates that job and he hates kids anyway, so if anyone wanted to be an arse in his class he wouldn’t even look at them. And he hates my guts.”

“I somehow don’t doubt it.”

“Why?”

“You don’t look like the kind of person who’ll let someone be an asshole to them without planning revenge. So, what’d you do to him?”

“Me? Nothing, but I broke up a few fights and shit and once I asked him if he was going to do nothing after those assholes who tore my gloves threw a ball _right_ at a friend’s head and he started bleeding from his nose and he dragged me to the principal. And he still couldn’t make me fail his class because I actually was good at PE.”

“Ah, so you _do_ have friends,” she jokes.

“Sure I do,” Jon quips back, “mainly _that_ one, but his father hates me so we hang out… not where he can know, I guess. Anyway, since the arsehole over there couldn’t make me fail his class he spent his time publicly discussing a few personal things he should’ve kept for himself. Which weren’t nice. And obviously I couldn’t send any parents to tell him to quit.” He shrugs. “Good thing this year I had someone else.”

“Well,” she says, “you don’t have to say hi.”

“Like _hell_ ,” he agrees, “but maybe he shouldn’t see me drinking.” He downs the entire glass in one go and moves it to her side of the table, apparently just in time because Arse PE Teacher chooses that moment to turn and look at them and send Jon a stare that’s… well, damn fucking spiteful.

She immediately puts a hand on his leg, squeezing his knee, because it’s the most comfortable position, and then she realizes it might be kind of inappropriate.

“Should I move that away?” She asks, not wanting to do anything wrong accidentally, but -

“Do you want to?” He asks, his voice barely audible.

 _Wait_.

“Not if you don’t want to,” she says, and now he’s full-on blushing furiously, but then she moves her hand up his leg and brushes her fingers against his crotch —

He bites down on his lip and doesn’t tell her not to.

“Jon,” she says, “can I ask what specific kinds of comment did the arse over there indulge in, or should I not?”

For a moment, he just stares at the table. “Let’s say the gist was the he found it plain obvious _why_ I was in the previously terrible group home.”

Her first instinct is go ask the arse why does he have to look.

Because he’s _still looking_.

But then —

“Did you say he’s _not_ your teacher anymore?”

“No.”

“So he can’t, like, fuck up your grades?”

“He wishes. Why?”

She takes a long sip from her glass.

“You can stop me whenever you like, _if_ you want,” she says, and then she moves a hand behind his head and drags it downwards and kisses him open-mouthed with her hand _still_ grasping at his crotch through the cloth of his jeans, and then she moves on the sofa so that he’s giving the guy his shoulders but she _can_ see him from over Jon’s shoulder.

She breaks the kiss and moves back slightly. “He’s looking,” she whispers. “What’s the name anyway?”

“Alliser Thorne,” he says.

“Right. Our Mr. Thorne is absolutely looking at us and he’s redder than you are and the owner’s not gonna throw me out if I make out with people, so —”

“Are we _just_ making out?”

“No one has to see _that_ ,” she grins, and kisses him again, winking over his shoulder at Thorne, who seems to realize that she has an eye on him and immediately proceeds to look down at his hands, except that he looks pissed off and the guy he was sitting with looks mostly confused.

 _Good_ , she thinks, and goes back to necking him, and she can feel that he’s biting down on his tongue to avoid making noise - too bad, she thinks it’s lovely when he does that but they’re in public after all - and she only glances at the other table after a minute or two. Thorne is still looking halfway in between shocked and pissed off, and Jon is _way_ beyond bothered, but he’s putting on an excellent act.

Then -

“This is unacceptable,” she hears Thorne mutter before he stands up and heads for the counter.

She grins.

“Hey, he’s gone to get the manager.”

“ _Shit_ -”

“ _Please_ , just move back the way you were before,” she says, and he does, flopping down next to her on the sofa and pushing his legs further under the table.

She doesn’t move her hand.

He doesn’t tell her to.

She wraps her free one around her beer and takes a long sip instead just as Clegane and Thorne reach their table.

“Well,” the owner says, “seems to me like they’re just having a bloody drink.”

“But — _but_ , they were being wildly inappropriate _before_ , I saw them,” Thorne protests.

“Who, us?” Ygritte says, hiding her smile behind her pint. “Sorry. I was finishing my second drink here. Nothing _inappropriate_ , I think.”

Jon’s just staring at Thorne instead as if he’d like to murder him, and Ygritte still has her hand on his cock and she doesn’t know how he’s keeping his act that straight.

“Listen,” Clegane tells Thorne, “just go back to your table and don’t fucking bother me if a couple kids make out a bit in front of you. Bugger that.” He goes back to the counter after staring the other man down and Thorne doesn’t even try to contradict him, but then again in between height, the scarring covering half of his face and the attitude, Clegane is hardly the kind of person who makes people want to contradict them, good for anyone involved in this situation.

Thorne lets him leave, then just sends them a _look_.

“Snow,” he says, “I find you looking quite pale. Sure you’re healthy?” He asks.

Jon looks like he would grit his teeth, if he could. “Very much so, _sir_. No thanks to _you_ , _sir_.”

“Your hand giving you trouble?”

“No,” Jon cuts him short. “Sam’s head is doing fine as well, should you want to ask.”

“I hadn’t, but thanks for informing me nonetheless. I see you aren’t hanging around that _lovely_ Tyrell girl anymore, are you?”

At that, he goes completely rigid. _What the hell_?

“Not because of lack of attempt on _my_ part,” Jon says. “We weren’t really good for each other, but thanks for asking. I had no idea you took notice, _sir_.”

“Well, how about you and your girlfriend here stop being inappropriate? _Thank you,”_ he replies, and then stalks towards his table.

Jon’s shoulders lose tension at once and he’s obviously not as turned on as before now, but at least it didn’t end with the two of them getting thrown out of the place.

“Do I want to know?”

He shrugs. “My ex,” he says. “Well, I don’t even know if I should say that, it lasted two weeks and it was — we weren’t meant to be a thing. But she was popular so everyone knew we were a sort of thing. Anyway, we never went beyond making out, as I’m fairly sure you deduced.”

“I didn’t mind,” she tells him sincerely. Really, she didn’t care, someone has to start from somewhere and she was more than happy to find out he might have wanted to with _her_.

Still, she thinks he needs a distraction. Maybe —

She moves her hand on his knee, squeezing. “Since I suppose we can’t get any more drinks as long as he’s there, I guess that at this point either we go somewhere else or —” She lowers her voice, “ _Or_ , I could finish what I started,” she whispers.

He glances at her. His cheeks are flushed, but she can feel his legs suddenly tensing, and not in the bad way. “Really?” He whispers.

“As long as you don’t move and you pretend _real_ well, I’m sure no one would notice,” she says, raising her hand upwards, her fingers brushing over his crotch but not quite touching him fully yet. “The lights are low and no one’s in this corner. I can be quick.”

“And — all the way?”

She grins. “I don’t know if you want to wait until we get back home. And you didn’t mind _before_ , did you?”

“I — I liked it, actually,” he admits, so low it’s barely audible.

“So, should I —?”

“… Yes,” he whispers. His face relaxes a tiny bit, and she can’t help admitting he _has_ to be a good actor, since he barely opens his mouth the moment her palm presses down on his cock through his jeans. It’s not the best angle nor the best circumstances, but she presses up slightly closer, her hand rubbing up and down over the rough cloth of his trousers and at one point she gets bold and moves her fingers upwards, undoes the button, pulls down the zipper and grabs him through his underwear, which of course is damp with pre-come, but she hadn’t imagined any less. She raises a hand.

“Sandor, you think we can have a glass of water for him and a screwdriver for me?” She asks, pleased that her tone is normal enough that Clegane wouldn’t suspect. They get their drinks minutes later and during the wait she slows down so he doesn’t come just _then_ , then brings her glass to her lips.

“I’d drink if I were you,” she says, “best way to hide possible reactions,” she winks, and he nods and clears his throat loudly before he brings the glass to his lips. He takes a sip of water and doesn’t lower it — Ygritte takes it as her cue and jerks him off for _real_ now, or as much as she can, and he’s coming in a few strokes, but he was so turned on it was obviously he wouldn’t last long, and she keeps on stroking him through his underwear as he takes smaller sips and obviously bites down on his tongue when he’s not, drinking some once in a while so that no one can suspect she’s neglecting her vodka, and _fuck_ but if only she could do it without attracting too much attention she _would_ stick a hand under her panties, but — no. She can worry about herself later. By the time he’s done and he’s put the empty glass back on the table, she’s closed the zip and buttoned up his jeans again and she’s leaning back against the seat with her screwdriver, trying to not smirk too much.

 _No one_ seems to have noticed.

Jon’s taking deep breaths and he’s obviously flushing, but he definitely isn’t showing any obvious signs of what they’ve just done.

“So,” she says, “want to go home after I finish this or do you want to catch some crap movie at the cinema at the corner? They only do retrospectives and shit and no one’s ever there _especially_ at ten thirty in the evening.”

His eyes go wide for a moment. Then —

“What if I’m down with the cinema?”

She smiles, absolutely down with this turn of events. “Then tickets are on me,” she says, and stands up to pay the bill.

——

The cinema is indeed open and they’re having some kind of retrospective on trashy kung-fu movies from the seventies, which is most definitely a thing she doesn’t care about, especially since they’re _trashy_. Jon agrees on that, but that’s only better because it means neither of them will want to pay attention. She buys the tickets and they sit in the last row. By the time the movie’s started, there’s no one but them, and she can see why from the first scene — it’s _terrible_.

Still she waits five minutes. Just in case. But no one comes.

“Well,” she says, “seems like we’re alone.”

“Does that mean —”

“We can do whatever we want, I think. So, case is, I’ve been… bothered since the pub. You think you might wanna do something about it?”

He looks downwards, obviously eyeing the space in between the seats and the next row.

“And did you have anything in mind?” He asks.

“I think you know what I like,” she says, calmly, and he eyes the space between their seats and the ones in front of them again. And then —

She had figured he’d use his hand.

Instead —

First he grabs her skirt and raises it up, grabbing at the hem of her panties and tugging them down — she gets the memo and slips out of them, folding them over and dropping them inside a plastic bag she had in her backpack.

Then he clears his throat.

“You think you could lift your legs a moment?” He asks, quietly, and she does, and a moment later he’s slipping from the seat and kneeling down in front of her, raising her skirt carefully.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

She sits a bit forward and lowers her legs down so they’re on his shoulders and he moves forward, and — _right_. If anyone comes in it’d be _hella_ awkward because there’s no way they could get out of here without some maneuvering, given that they’re barely fitting. He moves his hands on her knees.

And then he puts his mouth on her.

She _does_ moan a little, though then she bites down on her tongue lest someone from outside hears them over the ridiculous lines that movie is dishing, and he presses his face up against her, his tongue running along her clit over and over, dropping a kiss or two around it when he’s not, sucking on her soft, warm flesh, and _fuck_ but he’s a damn natural and she tells him that, and the moment she does he goes at it _harder_ , his fingers grabbing her knees tight enough it’d hurt if she wasn’t worrying about other things like how much she loves what his tongue’s doing to her cunt, and she parts her legs as much as the armrests will allow her until she feels her climax building up and she comes against his tongue, and _shit_ he’s licking her through it, not that he can move.

Thing is — he doesn’t move after she’s done and she’s catching her breath. He just leans back a tiny bit, looks up at her with what seems like flushed cheeks in the white light coming from the screen.

“How long it’s been?” He croaks.

“Not even at half of it,” she replies. She’s barely followed the plot, but it definitely doesn’t look like they’re reached some kind of peak of the conflict. If there’s even conflict in this movie, anyway.

“Good,” he says, and he puts his tongue on her again.

If she thinks that he hasn’t changed since she jerked him off, it makes her blood _boil_.

Still, it takes her a bit to get there, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, and then she hears the door open.

He goes still at once and she sits _slightly_ straighter, but whoever comes in doesn’t even notice them and goes to sit in the first row.

She leans down.

“Someone’s walked in,” she whispers, “but they’re in first row. And they haven’t seen us. If you want to come back up —”

“What if I don’t?” He replies, his voice lower than hers.

Oh.

 _Well then_.

“I guess you will have to be _very_ quiet,” she grins, and a moment later his mouth’s on her again and she’s so turned on it takes her maybe five minutes to come _again_ , and he still doesn’t move after that. She reaches down, running her fingers through his hair, slowly, and he kisses her inner thigh before —

Before his tongue finds her clit, _again_.

——

She moves her legs and tells him to get up when it’s obvious that they’re in the last round of bad kung fu fighting — she doesn’t even bother slipping on her underwear and merely lets her skirt drop on her knees. He groans a little.

“You all right?” She asks.

“I can do with sleeping on a real bed,” he croaks. “But I’m plenty fine, thank you.”

“Yeah, _well_ ,” she grabs a tissue from her backpack and reaches up to wipe his face, “let me, or everyone’s going to find out.” She runs a hand through his hair to fix it a bit — it’ll do — and then she moves her hand down on his crotch again.

She can see him flushing the moment she does it. “Did you — again?”

“Twice,” he admits. “I guess I _really_ need to change into clean clothes now.”

“In a few,” she grins, and they run out of the theater the moment the credits roll.

At home, she drags him under the shower and sucks him off while they’re at it, there’s no way she’s going to let him go an entire evening without even touching him even if he obviously doesn’t _need_ that to come, and by the time they’re both exhausted in bed and his back’s pressing against her chest, she wonders, _how far would he be willing to go with this_?

Not that she had started with the plan of doing it in public every other damned time they go out, _but_ she did enjoy it, and he seems to be into it.

They’ll see, she supposes, and then finally goes to sleep.

——

“So,” she asks him as they go towards the bus stop the next day, “was yesterday all right?”

“Are you kidding me?” He replies, his cheeks flushing slightly at once. “It was _more_ than all right.”

“Good. I mean, I was reasonably sure they wouldn’t have caught us, but —”

“I wouldn’t have gone for it if I didn’t want to,” he cuts her off. “I mean, I hadn’t even thought I’d like it _before_ , but — I kind of do?”

“Well, I hadn’t even known I’d go there, but good to know that.” She grabs his hand before he can stuff it into his pocket. “You know, I was with a number of people before you, but then we never ended up being, you know, _compatible_.” Which is entirely true — none of her previous boyfriends would have gone along with that, and she never had issues getting laid but sticking more than two weeks with someone she actually has had _good_ sex with? That’s not happened since she figured out sex with her first two boyfriends was bad because she liked to be on top, pretty much.

He flushes a bit more, but — he also looks pleased to hear it?

“Well, next time I won’t say no. Fuck, Thorne’s face was _epic_ ,” he says, sounding like he _definitely_ relishes the memory.

“We’ll see about next time, then,” she says, and decides that maybe next week, after his first final if she hasn’t understood wrong, they can go out _before_ ten PM.

——

 

 _How did it go?_ , she texts him during her lunch break between classes.

 

The phone beeps maybe a minute later. _Seems like I aced it_.

 

_Good. Do you want to celebrate this week-end? ;)_

 

_I have another five to go next week, but sure, why not._

 

_Wanna do anything in particular?_

 

She doesn’t receive an answer for a while. Then —

 

 _You choose, I’m sure you won’t pick something I’ll hate_.

 

“Earth to Ygritte!”

She immediately looks up at Gilly, feeling kind of guilty — she was saying something before and she completely missed it.

“Sorry,” she tells her, “I got distracted.”

Gilly downright smirks. “Let me guess, your new guy is good in bed.”

Ygritte’s usually _not_ someone who ends up speechless, but she has to almost spit her water the moment Gilly points that out.

“What — how did you know I was seeing a guy?”

“You were smiling at that phone like a lovestruck teenager, and I’ve _been_ a lovestruck teenager.”

Fair enough. Shit, she _never_ did that kinda thing back when she _was_ a teenager, and look at her now.

“Uh, well, he _is_ ,” she admits, figuring denying it would be ridiculous at this point. “But I mean, he’s actually — nice, I guess? I mean, he’s _way_ nicer than my usual.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re compatible, when you end up with guys who aren’t nice it doesn’t last.”

“Fair enough,” she has to agree. “Anyway, he’s — I like him. I really like him, I guess.”

“Hey, I’m glad for you. If my ex was an arse and left me with a kid I’ll have to make do, it doesn’t mean _you_ can’t get nice guys or that I won’t ever run into one.”

“I admire your undying optimism,” Ygritte says, stuffing a piece of sandwich in her mouth. “But it looks — good, I think.”

“Then enjoy it,” Gilly nods. “And run what they said in last week’s seminar about Levi-Strauss by me again.”

Fair enough — Ygritte does and thinks, meanwhile.

 

_You choose._

 

Most of the other people who’ve been with her have said the same thing, but that was because they couldn’t bother to come up with plans.

 _He_ seems to actually _want her_ to do it, instead.

She grins to herself. She’ll see to plan things nicely.

——

Admittedly, she _hadn’t_ exactly planned on quickies in the bathroom of the decent Chinese restaurant, but when he showed up at her place he looked like he hadn’t slept in one week (which he confirmed — he _hadn’t_ , not with the rest of his finals all in a row), and when she asked if he needed a distraction or two he had replied maybe a bit too quickly. Which is why instead of giving in to Jon insisting that he should cook she dragged him to the Chinese place, figuring that after that she could show him around the neighborhood a bit more thoroughly, never mind that later there’s live music in the Irish club ten blocks from her place, which _could_ have been an option.

Except that he got a text halfway through his plate of udon and about blanched at the sight.

“Bad news?” She had asked.

“Not exactly,” he had said, “just — relatives I wish didn’t have my number.” His fingers look jittery under his still tacky yellow gloves and she can see that the chopsticks in his right hand are trembling.

She had glanced at the place — not many people, and the owner knows her. Also, she left home without a purse and her wallet’s in her jacket, that she’s wearing, so —

“You need a _distraction_?” She had whispered.

He had looked at her, swallowing his food, and then —

“What if I do?”

She had smiled.

“Women’s restroom. Leave your jacket here so they don’t assume we’re bailing. Give me a couple minutes, though,” she had said, and left her scarf on the chair.

Then she had gone down and walked inside the only stall in the women’s bathroom — it’s a small place, they don’t have multiple ones.

She had waited for a couple of minutes, washing her hands just so it looked like she was doing _something_ in there.

Then he had slipped inside the room, not wearing the jacket. She had locked the door behind him, taking note of how much space they had. Not _that_ much, but still more than in the cinema.

Then she had gently pushed him against the wall, next to the sink.

“Just try to be quiet, won’t you? We don’t want anyone barging in. And if you hear anyone out, turn on the tap,” she had said, and then dropped to her knees.

So, _no_ , she hadn’t planned on sucking him off in the middle of the restroom, and good thing the floor is clean, except that she _is_ doing it and he’s barely making noise — she can hear him gasp once in a while but it’s obvious he’s trying to keep it down, and he’s doing an admirable job of it given that she’s taking advantage of the currently very good angle to take him in as far as she can manage. He’s gone from half-hard to full in the handful of minutes they’ve been here, and she can feel his fingers grabbing at her hair as he looks down at her and most definitely tries to not make too much noise. She has her hands on his hips, keeping her grip as strong as she can manage while keeping her full attention on getting him to come in her mouth before someone starts wondering what the hell they’re doing down here, not that it’s going to take much — he’s close, she can feel it, and his grip on her hair is getting looser, and it only takes flicking her tongue the right way for him to go still for a moment, and _right_ , she moves back so she doesn’t risk choking but she swallows until she’s sure he’s done. Then she moves back, wiping at her chin with one of the disposable paper towels nearby, before turning to look at Jon — his face is flushed and his eyes are closed and he’s taking deep breaths, but he definitely looks more relaxed than he was when he walked in.

She turns on the water, drinks a mouthful and spits it, then grabs another towel after throwing the first one in the toilet, gets it damp and closes the tap before moving closer and wiping sweat off his forehead.

“Did the distraction work?” She asks.

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” he says. “Uh, no one heard me, I hope?”

“Oh,” she grins, “you were _plenty_ quiet. Couldn’t have done better. So, should we go upstairs before someone comes down here?”

“I — yeah, it’s been long enough,” he agrees, but now he’s flushing in a way that makes him look… _pleased_?

As she goes up the stairs, she noticed she put that look on his face when she told him _he couldn’t have done better_.

She might be on to something, she decides as she sits down and finishes her food and he does the same looking _way_ less gloomy.

——

“It was my uncle, by the way,” he tells her as they head for the pub, later. He grimaces at that. “Well, he’d rather say we were cousins because he’s what, six years older than I am, but never mind that.”

“Wait, you mean the text?”

He shrugs. “Yes. I mean, there’s the hearing next week. About my legal status, I mean.”

“Oh. And it’s not looking good?”

“For _me_ , it’s looking great. But I don’t think that side of the family is taking too well to the idea that they’re going to have to go to court and tell everyone that my grandfather about burned my arm since most of them like to pretend it never happened. Anyway, I don’t even know how he got my number. Probably their lawyer.”

“Is that why you keep that hand hidden? I mean, if you don’t want to tell me you don’t have to, but it kind of doesn’t add up?”

“What exactly?” He smiles warily. She doesn’t know what other people assumed up to this point. But she hopes it’s not what _she_ has assumed.

“You really don’t strike me as the kind of person who gives that much of a shit?” She asks. “I mean, your fashion is hardly what’s cool these days and back when I went to high school if you went around with heavy French bricks — never mind _not translated_ — either you were cool for other reasons or people judged you regardless.”

He _does_ laugh a bit, at that. “Well, you’re — not wrong, as in, I _don’t_ really care, but _that_ — let’s just say some people liked to ask what had I done to deserve it and not _what was your grandfather’s problem_ , and I didn’t really want to talk about it anyway. And then — well, the previous girlfriend. She initiated things and she was _popular_ and I had no idea why she would, but — you know. I was flattered. But like, every time we went out I could see she didn’t appreciate the sight, same as most people she hung out with, so — it was a few weeks but they were some bad few weeks. At the end of which it turned out that she assumed that if you wear dark colors and don’t talk to _that_ many people and so on you get Mr. Darcy or _whatever_ she thought she’d get and it wasn’t the case. That said, I got over it. But you know. Better people not noticing than staring.”

“Fair,” she agrees, even if she doesn’t really think it is. But just the fact that he told her speaks volumes and she’s not going to tell him to do otherwise. Even if she thinks she’d like a word with his _uncle_ , whatever was in that text.

They go to the pub. The live music’s started already but there’s still some place to sit — she buys drinks for the both of them and they find a table in the corner, and even if they don’t do anything beyond that, it’s _nice_. And it’s also nice when they get back home and kiss on the elevator, and patience if the old lady next door who was going to throw the trash out at fuck o’ clock in the morning sends them a scathing glare when the doors open and they find her on the other side.

“Good thing we were just kissing,” he smirks.

“Yeah, especially because I don’t need to get evicted,” she smiles back.

Damn, but she really, _really_ likes him.

——

He has court the day after her worst final of the semester, but given that the week he was studying he barely wrote her back, she sends him a good luck text in the morning and then her phone stays silent not counting Gilly’s messages or her uncle’s. That’s fine though, she’s not really expecting him to answer her until tomorrow.

So she takes a long bath as soon as she’s home, fixes her hair, picks a clean pair of pjs and ponders ordering in before she crashes, she’s dead tired —

And then her phone beeps.

She picks it, figuring it’ll be her uncle.

It’s _Jon_.

She opens the text.

 

 _Can you come over here? If it’s not too late_.

 

It’s _not_ , it’s barely seven thirty in the evening, but she doesn’t think she can just knock.

 

 _I can,_ she types back, _but how am I supposed to get in if they’re strict_?

 

_Don’t worry about that, just warn me when you’re here._

 

… Well, _all right_. She dresses quickly, jeans and a t-shirt and a light jacket, grabs her bag and heads for the bus stop. She _does_ remember where he lives, if anything.

She spends the ride wondering what’s the problem, but she doesn’t text for an answer, she’ll find out soon enough. Thankfully the bus gets there soon and the ride isn’t _that_ long, even if it feels like it, and half an hour later she’s in front of the place.

She texts him.

 

_I’m at the front door. What do I do?_

 

She gets a reply seconds later. _Take the street on the left and walk until you get to the fire escape_.

 

She does, and a moment after she stops, a window opens at the third floor and Jon looks out of it — she can’t see his face properly, but it looks like he’s nodding at her — and telling her to _come up_?

Well, the window is right next to the stairs. Cannot be too complicated, she decides as she runs up the steps, calculates the distance and hoists herself inside the room, and she does it without making too much noise on top of it. Good thing that.

The moment she’s safely in, she looks up at Jon.

She was about to ask him what the hell is this all about.

“What the fuck happened to you?” She asks instead, because he looks like he hasn’t slept for three days straight, he’s got gloves on _inside_ the damned room and she thinks he looked better off after he got almost punched. Other than that, she takes a good look at the room. It’s small, though at least it’s a single. It has just one bed, a a wardrobe, a desk and a medium-sized full bookshelf, but the walls are bare and other than the books and a few texts on the desk, the only thing showing someone actually _lives_ here are the black clothes thrown on the couple chairs and the bed.

Hell, it’s _sad_.

“Er,” he says, “a lot, but — sorry if I just went and called. But —”

“Jon, can it. It’s obvious you wanted to talk to someone.”

“ _Right_ , but — in theory we’re not supposed to be _calling_ people at this hour,” he whispers. “Well, you aren’t supposed to be here at all, but everyone else went out for cinema night.”

“Is there a cinema night?”

“It’s the only _night_ there is,” he scoffs. “And I could have called Sam without getting you to take the bus and all, but he said he was meeting this girl he ran into at uni a month ago and he’s been looking forward to it for weeks, I wasn’t gonna go and ruin his date. And — I kind of — it wasn’t going to cut it by phone.”

“Okay. And —? Is it about tomorrow?”

He shrugs minutely, then turns towards the desk. “My social worked dropped by,” he says, and just from the tone it’s obvious he thinks _very_ little of the social worker, if anything. “For the usual drivel. Then he goes and drops the H bomb.”

“Did he.”

Jon grabs a fairly thick folder and dumps it in her hands. “That’d be my file. Not that he ever showed me a copy. And apparently tomorrow he’s going to read a few selected fleshy parts.”

“Such as?”

“Flip to the entire psychological evaluation part or whatever the hell it was named.”

She gives him a _look_ but then does, figuring that if he wants her to read it, there must be a reason. She thumbs over the basic information — date of birth, place and so on — until she gets to the section in question. She reads through it, aware that he’s _staring_ at her, and goes through the entire thing before she slams the file closed.

“Well,” she says, “I’ve only taken two psych classes in uni because I _need_ them, but if you cut through the jargon the sum is that your grandfather was an asshole, that it caused you issues relating to other people and that you tend to keep to yourself and you’re not above punching an idiot in the face if there’s the need, and anyone who knows their job who’d read this would know it’s not on you but on the system. Did I miss anything?”

“Yeah, _anyone who knows their job_ being the key sentence,” he sighs. “It’s just — I’m sure they read it and they know it, my relatives I mean, and I know it’s ridiculous, but — I mean, the idiot in question kind of hates my guts.”

“The social worker?”

“Yes. He kind of made me understand he was going to make it sound worse than it actually is, when he does the report, which means that if the judge takes him seriously at best they keep him on the case until I’m twenty-one and I really would have avoided that, and at worst it doesn’t work out.”

“Well,” she says, feeling like she’s missing a fundamental piece of the puzzle, “even if it does, you can go stay with them when you turn eighteen, can’t you?”

He shrugs, and it doesn’t look like she’s helped the situation any.

“Sure, I _can_ , but — if it goes well tomorrow, it’s a full-on adoption, which means they get benefits until I’m twenty-one and I don’t have to be in contact with the other side of the family anymore and I’m cut out of their drama for good. If it doesn’t, I have to go there with the dumb surname I got to pick myself when I ended up in the system because my grandfather didn’t want me tied to _them_ and there’s — one of my cousins is my age, everyone else is younger, so it’d be _someone else_ on top of five kids. And they said they wouldn’t care but honestly, they should at least get the benefits, it’s not like they’re swimming in money.”

Ah, so _that_ was the point.

“What do you mean with _he made you understand he will make it sound worse than it is_?”

“He’s going to argue a case that it wouldn’t be a good idea to put me in the same space as _young children_ never mind that we’ve met for this entire year and it all went great. Anyway, I just — I couldn’t say all of that on the phone.”

“Hey, I didn’t _mind_ coming here,” she says, putting the file away and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Really. You didn’t disturb me or anything.”

“I feel like an idiot,” he sighs, “I just — I know it most likely will go fine, but it’s not _sure_ and — Christ, they _read_ that file most likely, they _know_ , and if they stuck with this for a year they won’t rethink it on the last day but I’ve seen enough cases go wrong for other people to last me a damned lifetime so now I’m freaking out and I still feel like an idiot. Great. And if they catch you here I’m going to be well and truly fucked but I couldn’t _wait_ —”

“ _Jon_. First thing, I know we haven’t put labels on things yet but if — I mean, you can call your girlfriend if you have problems,” she tries to joke, and for a moment he looks at her with a relieved stare in his eyes that she’s going to have to address later, “and people _do_ tell each other things if they’re, well, _that_. Second thing, how long does _cinema night_ last?”

He thinks about it. “Well, everyone was leaving when I called you, but the cinema is like, fifteen minutes from here and they usually leave half an hour before it starts at least. So — it took you more or less that time to get here, the movie’s probably starting now. And it was something for kids so it can’t be longer than what, one hour and twenty minutes? Anyway, they won’t be back for at least that much.”

“Then I’ll be sure to leave before anyone might find me, so stop fretting about _that_. It’s ridiculous enough that they don’t let you have friends over,” she smirks, and then she puts a hand on his face, sitting next to him on the bed. “And you’re not being an idiot, even if you’re freaking out, but you have your reasons. So now, do you want to talk or do you want me to distract you? I can do both, I’m _that_ good.”

He does laugh at that, good. Not fully, but some.

“What if I want you to distract me?”

“Sure thing,” she grins, and kisses him, full, _meaning_ it, and he immediately kisses back, his arms around her back, and since he wasn’t really sitting fully on the bed he stands up and she goes with him, and as they kiss she ends up with his back against the window and —

The alley outside is dark and there are a couple of streetlights. The sun is almost down, which means the light won’t last for long. And a moment later she has an _idea_ , and then she decides that maybe it’s too much, but —

But she thinks she knows what the problem is here.

And maybe —

She leans back.

“Hey,” she says, “I think — do you want a _real_ distraction?”

“As in?” He asks.

“Something that _would_ probably cause you trouble should anyone see or find us, but I solemnly swear we’ll be done before I have to scram.”

He stares at her. “How much trouble?”

“A lot of trouble,” she says, not wanting to sugarcoat it. “But I think you kind of need it.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” she says, “that I should put my hands on you right _here._ ”

“Right — _oh_ ,” he says, finally understanding.

“The sun’s setting. That alley’s dark. And no one’s passed by for now. If anyone does, I can close the light and they wouldn’t see anything.”

“But people _could_ see.”

“They _could_. Same as they could in the cinema,” she winks, and he lets out a small breathy moan as he presses up against her. “I swear, nothing too lengthy.”

“And how — how would you want it to go?” He asks, shakily.

“I’d be wearing clothes. _You_ wouldn’t. Anything else, well, are you sure you want to know beforehand?”

He licks his lips and she can feel his cock straining against her thigh, jeans and all.

He looks at her for a moment, two, three —

“Yes,” he says, his voice small but decided. “Just — yes,” he says again, his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Good,” she grins, and feels momentarily very, very glad that he’s wearing a button-up and no shoes or socks — right, the floor’s carpeted, he wouldn’t need shoes to walk on it. “Stand back. Arms down.”

He takes a last, shaky breath and does. She can see his back, up straight, but she can also see he’s trembling with tension.

She makes quick work of unlacing the buttons of his shirt, revealing his firm chest, and she runs a finger over the cigarette burns before taking the shirt off.

Then she puts her fingers on his right glove. She looks at him. He freezes for a moment, but then he nods once, quickly, and she pulls it off and throws it on the side, then does the same with the left one. He flinches as she uncovers his burned hand, but everything in due time.

“Great,” she says, “now let’s get the rest off.”

She opens the button of his jeans and the zipper, then pulls them down and gets them off him and to the side along with the shirt, moving back to her feet a moment later.

She can _see_ he’s tense as a live wire, it doesn’t take touching to know, and when she puts a hand on his shoulder she can feel it. But that’s fine. He was tense before.

She puts the other hand on the other shoulder, then gently pushes him towards the window until his back hits it. Then she slowly, slowly moves her hands downwards, over his chest, until her fingertips touch the cigarette burns at the side.

“I think,” she says, “that you really have no clue of a few things.”

“Like?” He whispers.

“First rule: you can’t talk unless you want me to stop or I ask you a question. Especially if it’s to tell me I’m wrong.”

He opens his mouth, then nods.

“Good,” she grins, and she can see him flush slightly at that.

“I was saying,” she goes on, “that you honestly have no idea of how lucky I think I got.”

At that, his eyes go wide and he shakes his head.

Yeah, of course.

“Because,” she goes on, “even if I was just terribly shallow, I’d be a damn idiot if I thought I didn’t luck out when it comes to looks.” She leans down, presses her mouth against the burns, leaves a trail of kisses upward until her mouth touches his nipple — she gives a ghost bite to the side, kisses it, then runs her tongue along his shoulder. She can feel him tremble, but she’s not going fast. Not yet. “I mean, I know you don’t agree or you wouldn’t be hiding _this_ ,” she says, her hands going around his hip, pushing him towards her, her other hand reaching down and cupping his ass, pressing him close. “And anyone who walked by would think they lucked out if they could see your back, let’s not even go into the front.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and she has a feeling he wants to tell her she’s wrong but he’s not doing that — good.

“And,” she goes on, moving her hand from his ass to his left hand, taking the wrist in her hands, “it’s a complete pity that you think something’s wrong with you to the point you’d hide this.”

She brings it to her mouth, _finally_ kissing the palm before turning it over and moving her lips over his knuckles, all of them, twice, and threading their fingers together before she pushes him back against the window and kisses him, slow but _firm_ , and he about melts against her as she does — she can feel that his knees are shaking a bit and that he’s completely leaning against the glass.

“I mean, I get why,” she goes on, “but you shouldn’t have to.” She moves her lips along his neck, debates leaving a hickey, decides against it in case it shows tomorrow in court and it might cause him problems or unwanted questions and bites softly on his lower lip before moving on to the next part.

“Turn,” she says, and he nods shakily and does, his hands touching the window with trembling fingers. she presses up against his back, _entirely_ aware that she’s completely dressed and he’s _not_ , and when her fingers touch his cock she finds him as hard as she had _felt_ him before against her leg. She smiles to herself a moment before wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging, moving so that her chin’s tucked against his shoulder and she can meet his eyes in the reflection of the window’s glass pane.

Of course, he has them closed.

“Come on, eyes open,” she says, and he does, a moment later. “Good.” She turns her head, kissing the top of his cheekbone, and then she starts jerking him off.

 _Slowly_.

“Worried someone might see you?” She asks. “That was a question, you can answer.”

“What — what if I am?” He croaks, and he sounds _very_ much turned on.

“I doubt anyone will, but if they did, I’m sure they’d appreciate the sight,” she goes on. “Because you’re one, whatever you think. But it’s not just _that_ ,” she goes on, speeding up her motions, feeling her hand getting wet with precome —, “even if believe me, it’s a _lovely_ sight.” She loosens her hold on his waist a bit, lowering her hand down until it’s resting just above his crotch. He bites down on his tongue, obviously trying to keep quiet, even if she can hear him panting quickly.

“ _But_ ,” she keeps on, “that’d be just — from the outside. Because if they could see you from the _inside_ , they’d _all_ think they lucked out.”

He groans, and she can see that he wants to say _no_ , but he doesn’t.

 _Good_.

“Stop that, it’s true. Whatever’s inside that file, it’s not _you_. And anyone who actually talked to you — for more than five minutes would get that. There’s exactly _nothing_ about you that’s a bloody turn-off,” she whispers, straight into his ear as she turns her head slightly, her fingers moving faster, and by now her hand’s so damp she’s sure he’s going to come shortly, except that maybe they shouldn’t get the window dirty.

Still —

“You’re smart, you’re _nice_ regardless of all the crap you’ve gotten through, I’ve _never_ been into anyone as much as I am into _you_ , and if you think that whatever bullshit's in that file means anything, _you know nothing_. Clear?”

“Clear,” he blurts, barely audible, pushing against her hand.

“Are you close?” She asks, slowing down, just barely.

“Yes,” he nod, quickly.

“Look at that,” she grins, “I could have you coming all over the window. You could draw the curtains and leave tomorrow morning before anyone comes checking, and what would your _social worker_ know?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, obviously trying to do the contrary, but she can feel how much exactly the idea of it is turning him on.

“Or,” she goes on, “you could turn and do it on my hand, which would mean — my clothes would get dirty, and I’d have to go back home in them. Or should I decide?”

“Your pick,” he says, and he obviously _means_ it, and —

 _Well then_.

“Then don’t move,” she says, and at that he lets out a noise that goes _straight_ to her own groin, and — right. That was maybe _too_ risky, if anyone else had been in they’d have heard —

She grins and moves her free hand upwards, slipping a couple of fingertips in between his lips. “There,” she says, “whenever you want, you can give that to me. And don’t move until you’re _done_ ,” she says, hoping it sounds as firm as she was wanting it to be, and —

He moans around her fingers, going still for a moment, and then his shoulders slump downwards slightly, and he’s coming all over her hand _and_ the window, and she keeps on stroking him through his orgasm, her fingers not losing their grip, her mouth pressing against his neck, her eyes fixed down on his cock as he spills, and _fuck_ she’s never wanted to bring herself off so much in her life but this isn’t really about _her_ , and so she ignores it and only slips her fingers out of his mouth the moment he’s taking even breaths and his head has fallen back against her shoulder for a moment.

When she does, he takes in quick, deep breaths, and his cheeks are flushed and his hair is completely undone, but he definitely doesn’t look _tense_ , for one. She moves her arm around him, holding him up for a moment as they both catch their breath, and then she moves the both of them away from the window and on the bed.

She looks at the time. They have another forty minutes before she has to leave, at best. “Hey,” she says, “I didn’t really want anyone to risk finding out. Is there anything to clean stuff around here?”

He snorts, not opening his eyes. “Wardrobe, the third of the small drawers. We’re supposed to keep our room clean, _so_.”

“Right.” She kisses his cheek, then stands up. “I’ll clean this off before it dries, give me a moment.”

He nods and she opens the drawer — right. There’s some detergent and a cloth — she sprays it and goes to the window, washing away all evidence after wiping her own hand on it, then throws it back into the drawer, opens a small door that leads to an even smaller bathroom, gets a towel damp and goes back to the bed — Jon’s lying down on it now and he only hums in approval when she runs that over his waist and legs, making sure he won’t need an immediate shower before tomorrow morning. He’s taking in deep breaths and he half-opens his eyes when she puts the towel away and cups his cheek.

“How are you holding up?” She asks as he turns slightly over, pressing up against her palm.

“I can’t even believe we got away with it, but — great, actually. Did I ever tell you you’re a lifesaver?”

“No, but I’ll remember it.”

She looks at the time — she still has some twenty, twenty-five minutes before people might begin to come back. Not as much as she’d like.

She shakes her head, kicks her shoes off and forces him to stand up and get under the covers.

“At what time do you have to be up tomorrow?”

“Court’s at ten,” he slurs. “I should leave here by nine. If I want to shower and eat something, guess I should be up at eight at most.”

She grabs his phone and sets an alarm for seven forty-five, puts it on the nightstand and climbs over the covers. The bed is small and they can both barely fit on it, but it’s not as if she has to stay long.

“Right. I set you an alarm fifteen minutes before then. I’ve got to run in twenty but if you feel strange or weird in the next few hours just call me or text me, all right?”

“Sure,” he nods, “but why would I? I’m feeling great, actually.”

She brings a hand to his hair, carding through it. “You might, but hopefully you won’t. Anyway, don’t start assuming the worst. There’s really nothing _that_ wrong with you,” she says, her voice going slightly lower, and he says nothing to that so she keeps on running her fingers through his hair until her wristwatch says it’s time to go. She wonders if he fell asleep, but no, even if he looks like he’s at the brink of it.

“Hey,” she says, kissing his cheek, “I’ve got to go, but _call_ if you need it, all right?”

“Right,” he tells her, nodding, and then — “Listen, uh, the entire thing’s private. But — it should be done by midday.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“Yeah, well, I was wondering if — maybe you’d want to drop by, after? If you can, obviously, it’s not —”

Oh. _Oh._

He’s just asked her —

“Text me the address,” she interrupts. Even if she had class, she _would_ have skipped it. “I’ll be there to meet the in-laws.”

He laughs, and it’s too bad that the room is dark and she can’t see it.

“Good, because I think you’d like them. And — shit, it’s late. I’ll text you.”

“Sure you will,” she grins, and hoists herself out of the window and on the fire escape.

Ten minutes later, she gets the courthouse address on her phone — she pockets it as she heads for the bus stop.

She definitely will be there.

 

_One week later_

 

She turns on the phone just after walking out of her last final — freedom, _sweet_ freedom — and it rings minutes later.

It’s Jon.

She picks the call.

“Hey, _Stark_ ,” she grins, “how are things?”

“Yeah, you’re gloating more than me about that,” he laughs, and well, fine, but she _did_ tell him it would go well, didn’t she? “Anyway, good. Are you done with that final?”

“Free as a bird. Why?”

“Because they _finally_ settled on tomorrow to come get my things.”

“Oh, so you’re leaving that horrid room for good?”

“Yes,” he replies, and bless, he sounds _excited_. “But I might need help packing. And it’s cinema night as well, so —”

“I get it, you want me to come there. Sure. I’ll drop my stuff home, take a shower and get there as soon as they leave. Which would be…?”

“It’s earlier today. You can be here at six thirty, they’ll have left.”

She goes home, drops her stuff, takes the shower, dresses comfortably and takes the bus with all the calm in the world, she _did_ have three hours to do it. She climbs up the fire escape stairs at six forty and knocks on the window — Jon opens it for her a moment later. She wants to tell him that it shows he actually slept decently this last week, and she’s delighted to see him in just a short-sleeved t-shirt with nothing covering his hands.

But then she also notices that his side of the room has some five neatly packed boxes, the backpack and a couple suitcases and everything looks completely clean.

“Do you _really_ need help with _packing_?” She grins.

“No,” he says, “I was done two days ago. But I was wondering something else.”

“Right. What?”

“I’m leaving _tomorrow_.” Then he nods towards the window.

For a moment she doesn’t get it, but then —

Oh.

_Oh._

“You mean,” she grins, “you want to do exactly what we’ve done last time, except that I shouldn’t clean off the window because what’s better than _that_ for a general fuck you to the system now that they can’t do anything about it?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or better — yes, I want that, but it’s also because, uh, I — I liked it? When —”

“When I made sure everyone who happened to pass by, if they did, might’ve seen how lucky I got?”

He flushes, but doesn’t deny it. “Just if you want, of —”

“If you think I don’t, you know nothing,” she smiles, and he smiles back as he moves with his back against the window.

She walks closer, then starts undressing him.

“Well,” she says, slipping buttons of his shirt out of their holes, “I didn’t have time to plan things, so I might be making it up as I go, but I think that _maybe_ after we’re done with this,” she goes on, throwing his shirt to the side, “you should put your mouth on me. How do you like that?”

“I —” He moans slightly, his arms down to his sides, not moving yet.

 _Not until she tells him_.

“A lot,” he breathes as she opens his jeans and pushes them down, and —

 _He didn’t even put on underwear_. Her mouth has suddenly gone dry, but she’s sure it won’t stay like that for long.

He steps out of them and she throws them to the side, feeling glad that she put on a dress before. It’ll make things a lot easier.

“So,” she grins, raising the red cloth of her skirt with a hand and putting the other on his bare shoulder, “are you going to be a darling and show everyone else how lucky you’re making me before I fuck you right against that window?”

He grins before he drops on his knees and she parts her legs so that he can move his head in between them, and she leans against the window with one hand against it and the other cupping the back of Jon’s head as his tongue runs along her clit before he sucks on it dutifully, slowly, as if he’s enjoying every damn moment of this, and _fuck_ if she isn’t, too, and honestly?

 _Honestly_?

“You know,” she breathes as he kisses her _right there_ , and damn if she’s not _this_ close, “I doubt anyone’s — actually passing by, but — but if they did?”

She stops, takes a breath, curls her fingers in his hair.

“If they did and didn’t appreciate the sight, they’d be idiots,” she goes on, “because — _fuck —_ you’re a damned gift, you know that?”

She moves his head back, even if she hasn’t come yet — patience. She will soon. “And not just because you’re good at eating a girl out,” she finishes, feeling like her cheeks are burning, and his are, too, and a moment later she’s tugging him upwards so she can kiss him and he goes along with it at once, his hands grasping at her waist.

“Good to know that I’ve got other talents,” he says, sounding hoarse, very much so.

“Guess that’s one reason why I love you,” she grins, and a moment later his eyes go wide and his lips curl in a small, pleased grin, as if he hadn’t been expecting it —

“I — me, too,” he says, quietly, “but I didn’t think —”

“That settles it,” she grins back, pressing him against the window, her hand going to his thigh, moving right against it. “Sometimes you really know nothing. So, should I fuck you against the damned window already?”

“ _Yes_ , please,” he groans, their mouths crashing together as she grabs her skirt and brings it over her waist so that it’s out of the way, and then she pushes him back up against the window.

She has a feeling this won’t be the last time they do this.

But it’s entirely good with her.

Actually, she can’t wait to do it all over again.

And, from the way he’s looking up at her as she drags him back on the ground so she can ride him properly — but still definitely in front of the glass — she’s sure he can’t, either.

 

 

End.


End file.
